Preventive Measures
by Unfading
Summary: 'Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win.' – Sun Tzu, The Art of War.
1. Prologue

**Preventive Measures**

'Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win.' – _Sun Tzu, The Art of War_.

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Genre: Drama/Mystery

Rating: PG-13 (T)

Lead characters: Hermione Granger, Tom Riddle, also feat. Harry Potter

Pairing: HG/TR unresolved

Disclaimer: standard

AN. Hi everybody! This fic is being written as a sort of a challenge for HG/TR pairing and is dedicated to my dearest friend _Star Mirage_. And this is my first attempt to write a simple unpretentious (and clichéd) time-traveling story, which I always wanted to do! Also, it's nice to take a break from my more serious chaptered fics – and so I hope to have some easier stuff here.

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_Prologue_

The time was coming to midnight, but Harry still was not quite persuaded.

'But is all this really necessary? We have already won, haven't we?' he said doubtfully.

His guest nodded patiently:

'And this is why it is safe for her to go now. Earlier, the outcome would have been unpredictable. The future – your future – was still not defined, and everything might have gone wrong. But now – now it's all different.'

Harry became thoughtful again, but then his face cleared: 'You mean if she goes now, nothing bad will happen to her?'

'I mean that if she goes now, she will succeed,' said his guest with the same patience, as if he spoke to a child. 'Whom can you trust I not _me_, after all?'

The prospect of his closest friend undergoing the risk so serious was very much disturbing, and he still was not quite sure if he was doing the right thing. But his guest's arguments seemed very persuasive, and then, the very _identity _of his unexpected night visitor spoke very strongly in his favor.

If only it all were not so strange; the entire situation he found himself in.

'But what if we _won't_ do this? What's wrong with doing _nothing_, after all? Our action – or inaction – can't really change the fact that we have won. Or can it? Because there is no force that could undo what has already happened – you said so yourself – and so no one can change the past. So what's the point?'

His guest replied, with a rather dark smile:

'Your victory was based on certain foundations. And on certain information that you were given. If not for Dumbledore, you would have never known a thing about these Horcruxes at all. Or that there were precisely seven of them.'

'Well, Dumbledore certainly didn't travel to past to learn all this,' Harry muttered. 'And even if he had to, he would have never sent anyone instead of him.'

'True; I don't think that he would do that,' the stranger agreed. 'Though, if he'd decided that he'd absolutely had to… Well, you'd never know. But one thing I know for certain: now, it is absolutely necessary. If it happens somehow that Voldemort has made not seven Horcruxes, but more, your victory will be very much in doubt. Don't you think?'

'And why would he have made more than seven? Do you have the proof, or what?' And then, a sudden idea struck him. 'Are you saying that you know this _for __sure_? That he _will _come back?'

His guest signed and crossed his legs: 'But of course I'm not to tell you that. All you are allowed to know – and which I've already told you – is that your friend Hermione has to do _something_ _right now_ to make sure that nothing of the kind will happen in the future. '

Harry was almost convinced, and yet, a vague feeling of dissatisfaction was not leaving him. It all was as if in a dream: this strange night visitor and their bizarre conversation, they were almost unreal.

'All right. I still think you should speak with Hermione yourself and explain her everything. Let her decide herself,' said Harry at last.

But the night visitor just shook his head:

'Unfortunately, this is out of the question. I can't see her now; this would compromise the entire mission. You are the only person with whom I can meet safely. Safely for myself… and for you.'

'Oh, really?' Harry raised an eyebrow skeptically. 'And I somehow used to believe that it was _just the_ _opposite._'

There was almost a pity in his guest' eyes – a condescension quite irritating, to Harry's opinion.

'There are things that a man has to do alone,' the visitor said at last, in a quiet and serious voice. 'But of course, you know this yourself.'

Harry lowered his eyes. As if he could forget.

He conquered Voldemort just three months ago.

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_Thank you very much for reading! Reviews are welcome!_


	2. The Arrival

**Chapter 1. The Arrival**

Fifty-four years before the night when a mysterious stranger paid a visit to Harry Potter, a certain Hermione Jean Granger, one of the two dozens of fugitives from the continent who were admitted to Hogwarts this year, was sitting at Gryffindor table in the Great Hall and, along with her new housemates, was having her breakfast.

A choice of meal was poor compared to what she had been accustomed to back in her days – or was it rather forth in her days? – but that fact didn't depressed her at all: Hermione was not the girl who would fall for that sort of carnal pleasure – well, to say the truth, she was not the girl who would fall for _any_ sort of carnal pleasures. And yet, she noticed this annoying imperfection, as she had noticed many equally obscure nuisances the day before, when she arrived at Hogwarts.

It was a depressing overcast day, and the long walk from Hogsmead to the castle was an onerous exercise, nothing like those easy pleasant strolls she used to have with Ron and Harry. Everything seemed dull and grey, and the outline of Hogwarts castle looked almost menacing against the low heavy sky. She knew that the whims of weather had nothing to do with that omnipresent mood of despair: the gloomy, sombre feeling the scenery left in them was the common side-effect of Disillusionment Charm, which had been used to protect the castle from Muggle bombings. Every other day would be like that, she thought: dull, lustreless, doleful. The charm would be lifted not earlier than in the spring of nineteen forty-five, so she had no other choice but to get accustomed to it – as well as all other Hogwarts inhabitants had to, included those who arrived at Hogsmead with her.

She was the eldest from the group that gathered at the village; the youngest was a tiny girl aged ten. Some of those children previously studied at Beaubatons, a few at Durmstrang, but mostly they were home-educated – at best – or had no education at all. Of course, those children were by far the only victims of the war that roared in Europe, and Hermione never knew why Hogwarts Board of Governors decided to grant asylum to namely those two dozen. Were their circumstances more dreadful than those of the others? Or were they distantly related to some British wizarding families? Or was it mere chance that allowed them, and precisely them, to be saved? And if there still was some principle, unknown to her, upon which these children were selected – did Hermione herself meet these mysterious requirements? She could only hope so.

Still, she and Harry decided that this opportunity was the safest of all others. A single transfer student would have certainly attracted more attention, and unwelcome questions would have undoubtedly arisen, while one in the large group of fugitives… well, not that she wouldn't been noticed at all, but, at least, it would be less suspicious.

And there was one more thing that had proven their decision to be correct. Just a day before her supposed departure, Harry returned from the Archives and showed her a yellowed sheet of parchment which listed the names of all those fugitives, exactly as they gave them at the time of their sorting.

Her name – Hermione Jean Granger – was there too. The document stated that she was sorted into Gryffindor.

ooxXxoo

The Sorting itself was silent and somewhat awkwardly hasty. Of course, it was nothing similar to the festive ceremony they usually had on the first of September. It didn't even take place in the Great Hall, but instead in one of the secluded rooms on the third floor, far from the eyes of the other students.

Upon some consideration, Hermione understood the reasoning behind this decision. The war devastated the outer world, both Wizarding and Muggle, the war of the scales unheard of – that was the fact of which castle inhabitants was certainly aware. And yet, it was clear that they choose to pretend as if nothing was happening. Their motives were the very best, of course, as it always was in such situations. What's the point to unsettle the other students with the sight of the fugitives, they probably said, reminding them about those _unpleasantries_ outside? Why to show them those ragged frightened children? That would certainly have spoiled this magnificent Halloween feast which they must be having at the moment… So, the fugitives's arrival was to be made as unnoticeable as possible. A wise decision, thought Hermione. Cowardice is always wise.

Thus, this cheerless welcome.

Only the Heads of the Houses were present; they sat at the long empty table covered with navy cloth and looked rather sullen. Children bunched at the safe distance from them and quietly whispered something to each other, waiting for their turn, but there was little joy in their anticipation.

They came to the table one by one, quickly told a few words about themselves and after that, were sorted. Even the Sorting Hat announced its verdict not in the loud and proud manner it always did, but in a shy small voice, sounding rather sad. No doubt that it wasn't left untouched by the spirit of total despondency that descended upon them all.

When Hermione's turn came, all happened very fast and in the manner most ordinary. She told her name to Dumbledore and then lingered for a moment, sustaining his rather meaningful glance. At last, he gave her a slight nod, imperceptible to others but not to her, and Hermione breathed freely: it seemed that Harry's letter to him had the desired effect. Dumbledore was aware that she was from the future, and didn't object to her presence. She was not alone, thought Hermione, and somehow this realization made her feel warmer and less tensed.

Then the Hat was put at her head. She knew the outcome: in future, she already saw the list with the results of the sorting. Of course, it was the right decision to put her in her own house; the only one that truly matched her nature. And yet, if only there had been _a chance_ –

…But the Hat interrupted her thoughts with brief, almost apologetic "Sorry, but I don't see the way to make your closer to your goal", and then proclaimed: "Gryffindor".

ooxXxoo

And so she ended here, at Gryffindor table, slowly eating her porridge and studying the other students in the Hall. In general, they were not much different from the people she knew in her days. Dresses and haircuts reminded her of old movies her mother liked to watch, and some words in the conversations sounded a bit unusual – well, it was another time era, after all – but mainly, they looked just like her old schoolmates. Boys were talking about Quidditch, girls – and most notably, girls of her age – were talking about boys. Nothing had changed, sighed Hermione. How predictable it was. Maybe, at the other Houses it was different, but now she would never know.

"There's no way to make me closer to my goal", she said to herself and bit her lip. Somehow she couldn't throw these words out of her mind. Well, she would find a way; no doubt in that. Not the easiest of all ways, perhaps, but still…

And with stubborn resolve, Hermione fixed her gaze upon the group of seventh-years at the Slytherins table.

For some reason, Harry told her that Riddle was quite handsome in his school days. She just shrugged, a bit annoyed, and didn't pay attention to what sounded suspiciously like a warning. In fact, she was rather offended that he decided to mention it to her at all – as if she was one of those brainless giggling girls who forgot everything at the sight of a pretty male face. She believed this sort of behaviour to be disgusting. They were nothing like her.

So, when Hermione saw Riddle for the first time, she remained perfectly calm. Instead, she made herself study his appearance with cold scrutiny, as if she was analyzing some kind of curious yet disgusting specie. She noted that he had regular, even refined features – well, maybe the eyes were too deep seated – but for her, this face was far from being pleasant. It was too rigid, too stiff. Not to mention that unhealthy, sickly paleness… At that point Hermione noticed that her observations became not as impartial as they should be, and corrected herself: all right, not in fact _sickly_; but still, not normal.

Finally, she summed up her impressions, and found Harry's warning to be utterly excessive. Riddle was nothing special. Why, she spotted several even more good-looking boys – well, of course not that _she _had considered them good-looking, but those stupid swooning girls certainly would.

'Like him, do you?'

Hermione turned sharply: Helen Prewett, that pushing girl with really suffocating perfume who showed Hermione around yesterday, gave her an over-broad smile.

'Whom?' she asked coolly.

'Now-now-now, what a wounded innocence.' Now, Helen's smile became almost rapacious. 'That boy you're staring at; Tom Riddle. Don't tell me you didn't notice him.' She leaned closer, breathing out loudly straight into her ear: 'He's so-o-o hot. Almost make me wish to be a Slytherin myself… At least just for _one night_.' She straightened up and burst out laughing, seemingly enjoying Hermione's lopsided face. 'Why, of course it's a joke, silly. But, between you and me, sometimes I almost regret that!'

Very carefully, Hermione moved away from that _way_ too overjoyed girl.

'To say the truth, I think he looks sort of morbid,' she said coldly. 'But I have no doubt that there're plenty of silly girls who'd find precisely that quality simply _adoring_.' She winced with contempt.

Helen blushed terribly, but quickly recoiled and looked her up and down with an almost insulting slowness.

'Well, maybe it's for the better,' she said offendedly. 'I doubt that the lack of _your_ attention would really upset any of our boys, anyway.' And then she bestowed Hermione with another enormous smile, this time a rather strained one, and turned away.

Hermione breathed with relief and returned to her meal. Just as she thought. Girls weren't smarter back then, nor did they have a better taste. Such narrow-minded they were, to believe that everything in this world was just about appearance. Their young age did not excuse them. Hermione was as young as them, and yet she never shared those foolish beliefs. As if her own friends liked her because of her looks. Or her nice dresses, her stupid flirt; her money, her blood, or her connections. It never was about any of those. Never. And now, they chose her – and precisely _her_ – to go here; and certainly not because of her appearance.

Success of her mission did not depend on her looks. It depended on her mind.

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_Thank you for reading! Your reviews are welcome!_


	3. Strictly by the Rules

AN. Hello everyone! I'm updating this story after so much time – all thanks to my wonderful friend StarMirage, who did not forget my promises of all sort of fancy extravaganzas I intended to write about here :)

Assorted background OCs were partially created for my other fic (which is not compatible with this one, but it does not really matter). Anyways, they're basically [insert a random name]+[canon surname] guys. And then we have a traditional Malfoy; now, how could we do without him...

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**Chapter 2. Strictly by the Rules**

Contrary to her expectations, Hermione's first experiences in Hogwarts classroom were by far not as spectacular as she had hoped. Why, her first Defence class was all but a complete disaster.

Madam Galatea Merrythought, Defence against the Dark Arts professor, was a tall elderly witch who seemed to Hermione a bit old-fashioned, even when compared to others there – because, naturally, everybody from the year of nineteen forty-four was bound to seem old-fashioned to her. But Madam Merrythought easily overcame all of them; well, with the obvious exception of the Headmaster Dippet himself.

She was always impeccably elegant in her dark dresses with narrow sleeves – which, as Hermione knew from Muggle history novels, were quite fashionable some hundred years ago – and behaved with an inimitable dignity of the fair ladies from those novels. She held a wand as if it was a director's baton, and her movements irresistibly brought to mind a musician or a ballet-dancer: they had the same adjusted grace, the same artificial beauty that came not naturally but must have been thoroughly cultivated by everyday practice.

Well, it was nice to look at, but Hermione herself, as well as her friends, never used to pay attention to the way how they looked when casting a spell. The magic should be effective, not pleasant to see – especially the practical magic, as here, in Defence against the Dark Arts. That's what Hermione always believed. But for Madam Merrythought, such a pragmatic point of view indicated an undoubted flaw in a person's magic abilities, of which she did not hesitate to inform poor Hermione during that fateful class.

The seventh years studied the Duel Code.

It all began rather ordinarily. Madam Merrythought, still graceful and vivid, despite her quite a venerable age – there was something of McGonagall in her demeanour, thought Hermione – strolled past the row of the sevenths-years, who had already taken the initial position, examining them narrowly.

'Mr Parkinson, don't lower the tip. Remember, the angle should be constant.'

'Miss Hedge, this is not a Quidditch practice. Straighten your shoulders, move the head back... now, that's better.' She lifted the girl's chin with her thin arm, encased in a grey suede glove.

'Mr Weasley, your opponent is not a horse, and your wand is not a whip.' Here Hermione could not suppress a smile – and was punished immediately, because Madam, coming abreast with her, bestowed her with what seemed to Hermione a particularly unfriendly glance, and added:

'Nor it is a Muggle fly swatter, Miss Granger.'

_Well, and so, _said Hermione to herself, suppressing her irritation. All those positions, proper setting of hands, trajectories of wand-waving – all this nonsense to which Madam Merrythought dedicated so much time and attention was absolutely worthless. In a real battle, it all was useless. As if Death Eaters would give a damn about the angle the tip of her wand constituted with the line of the forearm. Or how far back she moved her hand before the swish. Efficiency and practicality – these were the qualities that really were worth something, and definitely not all this window dressing.

That's why she obeyed the idiotic instructions of the professor, feeling herself unusually stupid. Well, if only they had moved to the practical exercises, she would have shown them all…

'No-no-no, this just won't do.' With a gesture, Madam Merrythought stopped her. 'As far as I understand, you had almost no formal training before, didn't you, Miss Granger?'

Hermione lowered her eyes and said nothing. According to her legend, she attended some remote school somewhere at the Carpathian foothills. The very fact that no one here had ever heard about that school should only make her story seem more believable.

'I am afraid that you will have to start from the very beginning. Rhythm, breathing, change of pace… These are basic, intuitive skills. Of course, you are way too old; after you turn thirteen, not much could be done…' She sighed and shook her head. 'Your technique is absolutely awful. I can't understand how you managed to learn broom-flights at all – has it never occurred to you that if you don't have a right intuitive feeling, all those memorized tricks won't help you in the least?'

Hermione looked at her in perplexity. Of course, her broom-lights turned to be absolute failure at the time, but what they had to do with what was happening now? In magic combat, a victor is the one who knows more spells and possesses certain courage and inventiveness to apply them timely – and not, say, the epitome of perfect elegance. Nor the one with a bigger wand. Or a mightier one.

'Perhaps, you are right, madam, and I do lack formal training. But I have certain practical knowledge,' said Hermione, boldly raising her eyes at Madam Merrythought and emphasizing this '_practical_'.

Madam Merrythought bestowed her with a very strange look – a curious mixture of sadness and regret.

'And you, undoubtedly, are very proud of this,' she said quietly, with a somewhat sudden weariness.

Hermione recalled her numerous encounters with Death Eaters, victorious as well as less so, and shrugged her shoulders.

'Why, I also happened to lose,' she said evenly.

Madam Merrythought still looked at her with that half-pity, half-regret.

'This is absolutely not important,' she said. 'Still, your experience will help me demonstrate something. There are quite a few of your classmates who should find this exercise... rather instructive.'

With these words, she turned to the class and once again, eyed the row of the seventh-years, seemingly calculating something in her mind. Someone from those who overheard Hermione's conversation with professor Merrythought now was looked at her with undisguised interest. As she noted, for many Slytherins, this interest was predictably mixed with borderline-insulting condescendence. Hermione watched her classmates closely, trying to understand what each one was worth – not only from the duelling prospective, but just in general.

Hilary Hedge, the captain of Ravenclaw Quidditch team and the only girl in it, met her glance seriously and answered with a small encouraging nod. Two of her Ravenclaw friends, Constantine Lestrange and Matthaeus Nott, watched her with distant, but not unfriendly curiosity. Billius Weasley, a fellow Gryffindor student, noticing her glance, smiled and winked, and Prewett, carefully pretending as she had not heard a thing, was looking at the professor. And as for Slytherins – Greengrass and Clearwater watched the scene with nothing but a polite indifference, Olive Hornby made an especially sour face, and Abraxas Malfoy, grinning unpleasantly, was whispering something to Tom Riddle, who was standing beside him. The latter just shrugged and, not changing his somewhat absent expression, answered curtly, to which Malfoy grinned even wider. Hermione clenched her fists, trying to suppress the rising anger: she could not stand being laughed at.

Her annoyance did not remain unnoticed by Madam Merrythought, and a faint smile appeared on her lips.

'Mr Malfoy, if you please,' she said. 'Would you be so kind as to demonstrate Miss Granger – and all of us – your knowledge of the Wizarding Duel Code.'

'And of which one precisely, professor?' Malfoy inquired with an overdone politeness, stepping forward. 'Ancient Celtic? Old German? Hardly Canonical Russian, anyway,' he smirked. 'Definitely _not_ the case.'

Hermione clenched her teeth. She understood the not-so-well-hidden insult perfectly: from all the Codes mentioned, Canonical Russian was the only one forbidding duels between wizards of unequal blood status, considering them shameful.

'Follow the Statute of 1670; it's the de-facto standard,' said Madam Merrythought dryly. 'Are you familiar with it, Miss Granger?'

'Quite,' Hermione muttered. How could she not be familiar; she memorised all this ceremonial rubbish ages ago, in Lockhart's time.

According to this Statute, a duel should be witnessed, but the seconds were unnecessary; the distance between the opponents equalled twenty paces, and all so-called 'noble' gestures - deliberately aiming aside, for instance – were forbidden. A duel was to start upon an agreed signal, and the exact number of spells allowed for each party was not usually restricted – even though it was tacitly assumed that their quantity would be equal.

Mr Nott, Miss Lyss, I'd ask you to set up the Barrier,' Madam Merrythought kept giving orders. 'Mr Riddle, would you please come to me.'

Hermione couldn't but throw a curious glance at them. Professor Merrythought was speaking very quietly, and to all appearances, was giving Riddle some instructions. At first, he looked at her with doubt and even seemed to have objected, but then gave up – bowed his head in agreement and, to Hermione's further surprise, turned around and left the classroom. Interesting, what did she say to him?

'I don't think that we will need the healers' help, but we have to make themselves secure,' explained professor Merrythought to surprised Hermione.

Ah, so _that's_ what it was. Well, a wise precaution. Hermione shrugged and switched her attention to her future opponent, who had already taken his place at the opposite side of the artificially bounded 'field'.

So. Abraxas Augustus Malfoy. The one and only. The centre of the Earth and the hub of the Universe. A surprisingly insolent and self-assured character, and, to Hermione's opinion, even more unpleasant than his future descendants – and she had no liking either for Draco, or, even more so, Lucius. Not as irredeemably stupid as his silent bodyguard, Bulstrode, or that empty-headed Helen Prewett, but still, clearly not possessing any talents to speak of.

They exchanged their bows, and Hermione ignored his almost imperceptible derisive smile. She was expecting him to say something more straightforwardly insulting, like 'mudblood', but to all appearances, Abraxas decided not to even bother. They turned around and began to count their steps, and Hermione was weighting up in her mind possible plans for the attack. Code is Code; but she knew a couple of hexes which no one here even heard of.

She turned back a split second earlier than Malfoy, and saw as he with a spectacularly graceful, but overly picturesque gesture raised his hand with the wand, taking the initial position. Hermione slightly smirked.

'One, two –'

She struck at the very moment when 'three' was about to sound – with a sharp swish, sending at Malfoy non-verbal _Pugio Aerius._ A simple spell, but rather powerful one; and besides, she had an advantage of unexpectedness – while Abraxas would meddle with his perfectly trained wand movements… Indeed – Hermione hit him with the next hex while he still was mumbling something. What was it, by the way? Oh, silver needles, _Acu Argentea_ – not bad, not bad … She had to resort to verbal counterattack – she did not know how to block this spell mechanically – and that slightly delayed her. Malfoy seemed to recollect a bit and now was furious – both of her spells had hit him, almost thrusting him back into the Barrier.

_Simply beautiful_, thought Hermione and, stepping forward, struck him with a plain energetic whip. He was in time to lift his hand, protecting himself, and almost managed to parry the first blow – again, having wasted a heap of time for the verbal incantation – but after her second blow, which hit his knees, simply collapsed to the floor. Somebody screamed, and Madam Merrythough was saying something – Hermione could not make out, what, as the barrier muted all sounds, and so decided not to pay attention. She waited just the necessary fraction of second for her opponent to rise to his feet. You can't hit a man when he's down, true; but no one said a thing about knocking down again of someone who's just stood up – and she was not going to give him a chance to regain his footing.

Two more steps; two more swishes of her shining whip. So, a Muggle fly swatter, madam Merrythought? Hermione thought that should there be a Death Eater in Malfoy's place, she would have aimed for the eyes – and had certainly succeeded by now. Anyhow, they had enough fun; it was the time to put an end to this. Any immobilising spell would do: everyone knew that to get struck by any slowing-down hex meant to lose the duel. Now, let's turn him into a pillar of salt – _Salitus _– Madam Merrythought should appreciate this; it's a classic battle magic, after all – and very much old-fashioned in that; even more than necessary…

Hermione took a deep breath and was about to cast her final spell – when a sudden blow came down upon the back of her head. _What? What the -?.._ Everything went dark before her eyes, and she had a fit of coughing. _Not fair!_ she wanted to protest. She turned around sharply, readying her wand for the strike, but then another spell hit her from behind – Malfoy had at last come to his senses, it seemed – and she was thrown back, straight at this 'unknown well-wisher' who struck her. Riddle! And how the heck had he managed to get here?

'_You_! –' she only managed to say, her eyes sparkling with rage.

She had not collapsed: Riddle caught her hands and held them firmly. Hermione twitched, trying to break free – but in vain. Half-turned, she helplessly watched as Malfoy, with a pale lopsided face, was raising his hand and already opening his mouth for the spell… She almost guessed what it would be – not _Avada_, of course, more like _Caedo_, judging from the movement of the hand, but –

'Enough!' Madam Merrythought interrupted in a sonorous voice, stepping forward. Torn with the tip of her wand, the duel barrier fluttered, like a veil, and dissipated. 'I said – _enough_, Mr Malfoy.'

Abraxas, still breathing heavily, lowered his hand and made a step back. A moment later, Hermione felt that she was free to move again, and she straightened up and adjusted her robes, throwing one last glance at Riddle and not really trying to conceal her 'warm' feelings towards him.

'I'm grateful to Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy and Mr Riddle for their participation. Ten points to Gryffindor and Slytherin.'

_To Slytherin? What for, I'd like to know – the numbers? _Hermione thought sarcastically. _Or, good god, for their so timely demonstrated team spirit?_'

'And now,' Madam Merrythought turned to Malfoy. 'I hope, you do understand, Mr Malfoy, how little your perfect knowledge of the Code will help you in a duel with such an opponent?'

'She was not fighting by the Code,' Malfoy grinned.

Professor Merrythought gave him a cold smile.

'Quite the contrary, Mr Malfoy. Formally, Miss Granger strictly abode by the rules. Let me emphasize – _formally_. Still, there's one thing in which you're quite right. Duelling Code was invented not for nothing. It's not just somebody's whim, and not a bunch of empty rules. It reflects a certain worldview, a certain perception of life, if you will… And of the very essence of the magical single combat…' And Madam Merrythought suddenly turned to face Hermione. 'What is the main purpose of the duel, in your opinion, Miss Granger?'

What did it mean – the main purpose? What a silly question.

'In proving your point,' she answered confidently, 'or the righteousness of your cause. It is commonly accepted that the victory in a duel would mean precisely that –'

Madam Merrythought only sighed.

'The ultimate goal of a combat of the kind is first of all the defence of your honour, Miss Granger. As for proving the rightness of your beliefs, or, say, exterminating or humiliating your adversaries, another means are used. A duel is not a war, Miss Granger. It is a way to end a war.'

Hermione unwillingly started, remembering the last duel between Harry and Voldemort, and became thoughtful.

'Of course, if you would regard the duel as no more than a simple skirmish, where everything is permitted, you should be ready that your opponent would treat you the same,' professor Merrythought continued. 'War is war. And in such a case, all your _Not __fair_! would seem very naïve, to say the least.'

Oh dear, could she really have said this aloud? Hermione felt that she was turning red with embarrassment. And then, for some reason, her duel with Bellatrix emerged in her mind – or, to put it more correctly – her, Ginny's and Luna's. To defend your honour? No one of them was thinking about that at all. Well, and as to what Bellatrix herself could have been thinking... Who cares for _that_ honour, anyways? War is war, as madam Merrythought had put it so nicely.

'I'm not teaching you how to make war,' said professor Merrythought in an unnaturally quiet voice, staring somewhere above their heads. 'I'm not teaching you how to kill. I'm not teaching you how to win at any cost. The victory itself means nothing if after that, you lose your dignity, your self-respect... if you lose your very self...'

Hermione looked at her classmates. Well, it did not seem as if they were in such a hurry to be imbued with Madam's pathetic speech. The majority were openly bored, impatiently shifting from one foot to the other – because, strictly speaking, the class should have already ended by now... But Madam Merrythought herself hardly had any illusions about her audience.

'We will continue next week, and will begin studying the elementary modes of wandless magic', she said in her usual voice. 'Class dismissed.'

Hermione sighed and dragged herself to get her school bag. Well, nevermind. In all truth, she had won this duel. And if only not for that blasted Riddle –

But at this point, Madam Merrythought interrupted her musings.

'Miss Granger, I still firmly believe that you need some extra lessons. I would not have counted much on the results, but still, it's worth to try. I shall speak about this with your Head of the House; we'll see how to better organize it.

'Yes, professor,' Hermione replied obediently.

This would hardly be of any use at all, but... Who knew what she'd manage to find out?

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_AN. Thank you very much for reading! Please, review!_

_StarMirage: see, this chapter did have action :)_


	4. Not Quite

_AN_. Huge thanks to all who is reading this story, and especially to those who reviewed! My apologies for mistakes and stylistic imperfections; I hope you will be tolerant with this: as you might have probably guessed, English is not my native language.

_This chapter_: Hermione starts to get some attention, but not quite of the kind she would like. Perhaps, if she proves her worth in more theoretical disciplines, situation will change?

(To StarMirage: I hope you will feel nostalgic after reading the second part of this chapter :)

* * *

**Chapter 3. Not Quite**

A strange thing it was: Hermione's encounter with Malfoy had created her some sort of 'reputation' – perhaps, not unambiguous, but not overall useless.

At dinner, all of the senior Gryffindor girls were surprisingly tense, and hardly bestowed her with a single word at all. However, in the eyes of many boys, most notably, the sixths and sevenths years from the Quidditch team, she noticed - well, maybe, not admiration, but respect. Billius Weasley – the very member of the vast Weasley family to whom poor Ron owed his so much hated second name and a leader of this small gang – was busy describing, for probably what was tenth time already, that ill-fated duel, accompanying his tale with the very eloquent and rather picturesque gestures. His story was clearly a success: his comrades burst into deafening laughter every minute, not giving a thing about others in the Hall.

Of course, Hermione was supposed to be flattered with such an attention – but all she felt was embarrassment mixed with annoyance. True, she was hoping to attract interest of her classmates and win their respect – but certainly not like _that_. This reputation of a 'kick ass girl' was absolutely not what she wanted. To say the truth, she secretly despised that kind of girls; not excluding – and probably even _beginning with_ – Harry's 'one true love', Ginny Weasley. She earnestly could not understand how a more or less serious person could fall for someone like that. And to become an object of infatuation of all those brawny yet brainless blockheads with nothing but Quidditch in their minds –

And here she admitted to herself that for some strange reason, it was guys of namely that sort who would find her attractive. Why – first Krum, then McLaggen, and, finally, Ron... Quite an obvious trend there... This sudden realization gave her shudders, leaving a rather unpleasant feeling in her heart. Well, nevermind. She would have plenty of time to change this perception. On Monday, they would have double Transfiguration, her favourite subject, and there she would certainly have a chance to show what she's worth. Now, for a serious person – and Riddle, with all his, let's say, _little eccentricities_, was unquestionably a serious person – this would indeed mean something.

Hermione threw as if an accidental glance at the Slytherin table. Of course, Riddle was there; he had already finished his dinner and now (in a curious reflection of herself back in her time) had moved slightly away from the others, engrossed in reading of some book. Almost immediately, he felt that she was watching him and lifted his eyes – nothing but complete indifference in his expression, as it seemed to her – and a moment later resumed his reading. For some reason, this annoyed Hermione even further. No, it's not that she wanted him to actually _like_ her – Merlin forbid – but… She _needed_ to find a way to get acquainted with him better, didn't she?

A new burst of laughter coming from Weasley and his friends made her start. That's it; she had enough. She thrust aside her unfinished tea and rose from her seat. Heading for the exit, she looked back angrily – as if it could help; the guys were still neighing like horses...

Upset and distracted, she bumped into Constantine Lestrange, hitting him rather painfully, and almost dropped her school-bag – which he adroitly caught just before it hit the ground.

'Oh, I'm sorry,' she said, embarrassed at her own clumsiness.

'Don't worry; it's nothing,' Constantine was looking at her, smiling pleasantly, and for some reason was not in a hurry to return her bag.

'E-eh -' After a pause, Hermione reached out her hand to take it herself. 'Thank you.'

'Why, it's heavy,' observed Constantine somewhat unnecessary, weighing the bag on his hand. He was still lingering. Hermione raised her eyebrows questioningly, and in response, he smiled even wider.

He had a very charming smile, one of those that could make attractive even the most ordinary face – and Lestrange's appearance could by no means be called 'ordinary'. He was undoubtedly an extremely good-looking guy, tall and athletic, with the conventional handsomeness of a romance hero: the type of good looks which Hermione found much more to her taste than, say, Riddle's almost non-human frozen perfection.

'Where are you going now – upstairs, to the towers?'

'The library', Hermione replied, forcing out a polite smile.

'Perfect; I go your way,' said Constantine easily, throwing her bag on his shoulder. 'I'll help you, if you don't mind.'

Hermione was a bit doubtful of this sudden friendliness. 'Thank you, um-m… Constantine, but honestly, you should not –'

'A-ah, don't worry, Hermione.'

Under the usual circumstances, Hermione would have her own way, but now decided to play along. A trifle of helpless femininity could be just what she needed to smooth out the image of a pert girl she had unwillingly created. Especially since this Lestrange seemed to be quite all right… And then, perhaps, he could become a potentially useful acquaintance: she and Harry did not know for sure, but it was very probable that he belonged to the inner circle of Riddle's 'old friends' who later formed the core of the first Death Eater organization.

'Fine; let's go then.'

They walked though the dimly lit hallways – the war-time economy had affected school illumination, among other things – and Hermione thought how to better start the conversation with Constantine. However, he spoke first:

'And you know how to fight dirty,' he said in an intimate undertone, bestowing her with another smile. 'It's a compliment, by the way.'

Hermione scowled. 'Thanks,' she replied dryly, hoping that she made it clear enough that she'd rather not talk about the subject.

But Constantine must have misunderstood the cause of her discontent.

'Don't worry about Malfoy. He's just got what he deserved. To say the truth, it's not that everybody here loves him that much at all. Thinks too much of himself, he does. Even his Slytherin friends – they're not fond of him either.'

Hermione could not suppress her scepticism: 'Really? I'd say, your _brilliant_ Head Boy was rather eager to defend him –'

'Who, Tom Riddle? Not likely. It's all professor Merrythought, she asked him… And he didn't want to; told us himself –'

'Oh, did he?'

'But of course!' Constantine looked at her as if it went without saying. 'Merrythought just wanted you to learn something or whatever. And then – well, it's not that he struck you that hard, didn't he? Only so-o gently…'

_Pure tenderness itself, oh yes._ Hermione absently rubbed her wrists: she had removed the bruises already, of course; but the hands still ached.

'So, and you are such good friends with Riddle?'

The question sounded a bit tensely, but, fortunately, Constantine did not guess the true reason.

'Oh, you should not be angry with him, Hermione. He's a decent guy. And he would never do anything of the kind; would never strike from behind, I mean...'

_But of course, he would never-never-ever. What a knight in shining armour. Fortunately, I'm not exactly a princess in a tower, either…_

'Even though he's from Slytherin?' she couldn't help saying.

Constantine only waved his hand with vexation.

'Now, I see; your Gryffindor friends, probably, have told you quite a lot about Slytherin. That they are, sort of, a bunch of pureblood snobs; and each and everyone is a Grindelwald's spy, no less.' He sniffed. 'But you certainly see how silly it is. People are all different, and you just can't treat them all alike only because they are Slytherins, or Ravenclaws, or whatever. And, besides, there's a lot of quite reasonable guys there in Slytherin; say, Parkinson or Greengrass, to name a few.'

Constantine, like many other Ravenclaws, seemingly made no difference between 'reasonable' and 'decent'. Well, no surprise he liked Riddle so much.

'And so it's perfectly normal for people from the other Houses to come to our Common Room – just to have a chat. We don't have so many of yours, to be honest, but… you see, yours have … slightly different interests overall. Don't take me wrong, Hermione – I like Quidditch too, and am in the team myself, but that's a little too much even for me!'

But of course. Our brave Gryffindorians don't condescend to intellectual conversations... Hermione was slightly offended, but then, recalling her annoyance with Weasley and his friends, said nothing.

'But you – you definitely should come. Really. You'll love it. There's a trick, though – you need to answer a question to enter; this is instead of a password -' here Constantine bowed closer and finished in a conspiratorial voice, '- but I will let you in himself, don't worry.'

Now, how _charming_. Hermione mentally raised her eyebrows. Something did not feel quite right here. It all was just too fast somehow; too fast, too smooth, and _a trifle_ too straightforward. But this Constantine Lestrange, it seemed, was one of those guys who were so sure in their irresistible charm that they never even considered the possibility of being refused. Hermione sighed: _well, at least he's not completely stupid.._.

Fortunately, at this moment they finally reached the library.

'Oh, thank you, Constantine; you're so kind.' Hermione deliberately avoided giving any definite answer.

He smiled again. 'So you will come.' Returning her bag, he held her hand in his for a bit longer than necessary.

'Thank you,' repeated Hermione. 'See you tomorrow in class.'

She watched Constantine till he disappeared behind the corner of the corridor, and then, getting rid of that unnecessary artificial smile and sighing with relief, headed for the library.

oxXxo

She looked forward to this day with impatient anticipation. Advanced Transfiguration, a double lecture on theory. Technically, it was one of the most complex subjects in their curriculum – even more so than Arithmancy and Computational Astrology – and that's why so many of her former classmates, who enrolled into that course in their sixth year, simply ran away right after the first few lessons, unable to cope with the workload.

The matter was that for mastering the more advanced fields of Transfiguration – the ones, for instance, dealing with non-trivial human transformation – mere swotting and substitution numbers into the ready-made formulae were no longer enough; and to succeed, Hogwarts students should apply themselves to theoretical studies rather seriously.

Something along these lines, but, to Hermione's opinion, in a slightly too soft and easygoing manner, professor Dumbledore told them that Monday morning, while introducing the topic of the lecture. After that, he wrote down three main laws of higher transfiguration: of conservation of magical energy, of interdependence between essence and substance, and finally, of the impossibility of eternal life (did it seem so, or had Dumbledore indeed bestowed Riddle with an especially meaningful glance as he mentioned this last one?) - and then, finally, said, that in their course, they would concentrate only on the first two of them.

With these words, Dumbledore easily waved his hand, and the three laws had vanished, giving place to a single row of symbols.

'And today we begin with this particular little problem... Well, now, who can tell me more about this equation? Where, do you think, it comes from?'

Hermione raised her hand at once. She threw a quick glance at the class and noted that she was not the only one who volunteered; and the other was not Tom Riddle, as she somewhat expected, but the girl sitting next to him. Lenore Lyss, Hermione recalled; the same girl who helped Nott with the duelling barrier the other day. Even then Hermione couldn't help noticing how strikingly beautiful this Lenore was, with her soft golden locks and gentle, almost porcelain face of a Victorian angel – definitely _way_ prettier than Ginny, their own 'beauty queen'. And now it seemed she was not a fool, either... Probably, was getting 'Outstanding' in every subject... And a pureblood, no doubt... To cap it all, Hermione noticed a silver prefect's badge on her robes, and sighed: now, what an epitome of perfection. Well, no wonder that Riddle -

'Excellent!' Dumbledore simply beamed with delight. 'I believe, this time we should give preference to our newcomer... Please, Miss Granger,' he said, smiling to her pleasantly and moving aside.

Hermione felt quite confident: she knew the equation very well. So she stepped ahead and picked up the chalk, trying not to look at Riddle on her way to the blackboard.

'Stroulger-Levy equation, also known as the Conservation Criterion, is a straight derivation of the First Law of Essential Transfiguration,' she began in a sonorous voice, writing out the neat line of symbols. 'It can be obtained quite easily, using the harmonic decomposition and then the Waffling transform; though I'm not sure if they're included in our N.E.W.T.-level syllabus. But it's relatively _simple_, indeed.'

Her hand moved swiftly and confidently; she produced one line after the other, not faltering even for a split of second.

Very soon the entire blackboard was covered with symbols and numbers.

'And she calls _that_ simple? I'd be damned!' Hermione heard Billius Weasley's loud whisper, and caught herself at the thought that she found the awe in his voice not overall unpleasing.

Certainly the rest of her classmates did not miss it either, she thought contentedly. But she could not allow herself to rest on her laurels. Not yet.

'… And now we move to the final stage of the transform,' she continued, adjusting the already small piece of chalk in her fingers. 'Just a trivial matrix equation, which, as we know, can be solved _in no-time_.'

The empty space on the blackboard was over, so she had to turn it to the other side. Yes, this equation was easy, but it was not quite true that it can be solved in no-time: even Hermione herself admitted that the amount of necessary calculations was excessive. But of course, she would never have said it openly; not in this class, not in front of Riddle.

She cleared her throat and threw back the hair from her temples. She was a bit exhausted, and the chalk had almost crumbled to nothingness, but it was only a few more lines… The inverse transformation of auxiliary functions... here it is...

'And finally, we obtain the desired,' Hermione finished at last, underlining the last formula with the thick double line. She had thought of adding _Q.E.D., quod erat demonstrandum, _but then decided that it would be too pretentious.

She put down the remains of the chalk and turned to face professor Dumbledore, trying to look completely unruffled. Let them think that it was nothing for her, just a child's play.

'Well, Miss Granger,' said Dumbledore slowly, and now she clearly saw a certain respect in his penetrating look, 'I'd say it's quite impressive. Yes, indeed, very, very impressive… Would you please turn the blackboard back again? That's right, thank you.'

For a moment, Dumbledore just stared at her writings, and it seemed to Hermione that he was hesitating. But why? Had she made a mistake here? She nervously shifted from foot to foot, awaiting what he would say next.

A girl in the second row raised her hand.

'Yes, Miss Prewett?'

'I only wanted to ask, professor, if it is included in our N.E.W.T. curriculum. The derivation, I mean. Or just the formula?'

Dumbledore smiled. 'Oh, no need to worry; it's just the final equation itself, Miss Prewett. But of course, if somebody of you wishes to give the complete proof, I don't think that the examiners would have a slightest objection.'

After that, both Dumbledore and Hermione looked at Riddle, and their unwillingly shared thought was so eloquent that some students in the class even gave out a short laugh.

A slight blush appeared on Riddle's cheeks as he understood that he somehow was connected with the cause of this joy. Certainly he, like herself, did not like to be laughed at, thought Hermione, and for a moment even felt pity for him.

'Were you going to add something, Mr Riddle?' asked Dumbledore, watching him very closely –almost greedily in his desire not to miss any change in Riddle's reaction, and maybe because of that, this question sounded more as a demand.

'No, sir.' There was nothing but distant politeness in that simple answer; but of course, Hermione immediately convinced herself that she had spotted an indubitable sign of violent hatred, hidden behind Riddle's expressionless face.

Dumbledore paused just as long as necessary for his silence to become meaningful.

'Well then,' he said easily. 'I expect you to repeat both the result and the derivation in your end of the term tests. In _exactly_ the same way it was presented by Miss Granger. Certainly, it won't create any difficulties for you. Or will it?'

The hint of mockery in Dumbledore voice as he delivered this message was somewhat unnecessary, and it made Hermione feel rather uncomfortable. There was something unnatural in the way both Dumbledore and Riddle acted; those unmistakable signs of some underground currents of which she had little knowledge.

The oddness became evident to all, when, instead of an answer, Riddle rose from his seat and, without saying a word, went to the blackboard. Hermione automatically offered him the chalk, which he took, not bestowing her with a single glance.

For several moments, Riddle looked at Hermione's writings, his impression utterly cool, and then, with one simple movement, just crossed them out. After that, he wrote three very simple formulae on the tiny free space beside, returned the chalk to speechless Hermione and went back to his seat.

She stared at what he wrote as if in some kind of stupor. It did not take much time for Hermione to understand the idea behind the solution, and now she was gripped by the mixture of very different feelings. She would hardly be able to describe them herself: there was shock, surprise, anger, wounded pride – but at the same time something not unlike awe and admiration.

It was a brilliant proof, both simple and beautiful. She had not met anything similar in any of the books on the subject she had read, but now it was evident that, in fact, it was the most natural approach to the problem. Just _amazing_, how perfectly the proof looked now – nothing of the heavy and cumbersome calculations she had to make …

Hermione slowly exhaled, faced with a very unpleasant truth: Under no circumstances could she have found this solution herself.

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_AN_. _Thank you very much for reading!_

_My apologies to those who don't like math-y stuff... I tried to show the type of cleverness peculiar to Hermione: she's very good in all that could be learned from the books, but intuition is her somewhat weaker spot. And then again, in the HP novels she clearly was 'the brightest of them all', as the competition was literally absent – and it is interesting to see how she would react if she had a chance to meet someone who's better than her._

_Next chapter_: Hermione speaks with Dumbledore about her mission.


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